


Mac N Cheese

by NerdInABlueBox



Category: The Amelia Project (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Boris tries to be helpful but like...uh he isn't, Golovin Prison, Hurt/Comfort, I really just named this Mac n cheese lord have mercy, I'm sorryyyyy god why is this fandom so small I'm sufferinng, Not really an au it just diverges after ep 28 or so, Whump, beat up, uhhhh I forgot what tags are supposed to describe?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-12 21:47:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28892373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NerdInABlueBox/pseuds/NerdInABlueBox
Summary: The interviewer is left in a vulnerable position after a former client attacks him in the prison cafeteria. Luckily for him, Alvina and Amelia are there to help him back to his feet.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 5





	Mac N Cheese

**Author's Note:**

> I hate that there are like...only 8 fics in this fandom? This is an entirely self-indulgent whump fic that I feel like is under scrutiny and ahhhh okay if the creators ever read this I'm gonna phase out of existence. And WHY DID I NAME IT MAC N CHEESE

The interviewer stood in line for the prison’s latest attempt for “American Mac and Cheese.” Pitiful, by the interviewer’s tastes, but at least they were trying. These past few weeks had been…interesting, to say the least. Each day repeated itself over, and over again. Clients would sneak into his cell and day after day he would help them escape their shitty lives.

Today had been especially trying. Some man named John Doe wandered in and claimed that his identity had been stolen and that he needed a new name and needed to escape the confines of his job. It’s astounding, the lengths people will go through to escape the inescapable. Alas, he’d heard it all before. In the past, and with the help of Alvina…how is she doing, anyways? He’d thought that she’d be here by now…with the help of Alvina, the Amelia Project had taken care of 5 John Does and 2 Jane Does. At what point does one start turning away Doe’s? They’re much overdone at this point and, would honestly be a waste of resources. So yes, the Interviewer had turned away Mr. John Doe after assessing his case to the full extent of his power.

And now he stands in line for Mac and Cheese. His bowl is full of some orange-passing slop, with no hopes of any hot cocoa in the near future. He finds an open table and sits down. He picks up a spoon and begins to play with his food. The “cheese” certainly stretched correctly but he couldn’t be certain that it didn’t still have the same texture as, say, hot plastic, or hot glue, or hot pockets. God, did he miss food. And hot cocoa. Food and hot cocoa…Hot cocoa and food. Yes. That will do.

Lost in thought, he didn’t even notice as the footsteps approached him from behind. A heavy hand is laid on his shoulder. He looks to his right. A hulky man sits down on his right. Another man sits to his left, and finally, a bald, Russian man sits down directly across from him. The interviewer concluded that he probably would not have time to finish his slop and request cocoa, instead. He pushes the tray into the middle of the table, having it now act as a kind of divider between himself, and his apparent adversary.

“Hello there. Any chance you know how to get cocoa around these parts?” asked the interviewer.

The man sitting across from him looks to his peers. A smile slowly crawls onto his cheeks.

“Yes…you’re the funny one.”

“Funny? Well I don’t know so much about that-“

“You think it’s funny, what you do?”

“I don’t follow.”

“You kill people.”

“You’re mistaken. You see, I refer to myself as more of a cocoa connoisseur than a murderer but please do-“

“You kill them, and then rebirth them.”

“Ah, well, who am I to say? Information flies around here like a- “

A hand comes onto his other shoulder. It squeezes, stopping him mid-sentence.

“Well then, you must be a customer then?” says the interviewer.

“You remember Dvorak?”

“The composer?”

“Benny Dvorak? He came to you a year ago.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about – ah!”

The man had slapped the Interviewer across the face.

“Do not play stupid! I know your entire organization and I know you! The Amelia Project! You killed my brother!”

The interviewer wipes at his mouth. No one in the mess hall had noticed the happenings at his specific table. He looks around for the nice guard he had helped earlier, but it seems she had disappeared for good. Damn his efficiency. He takes in a breath and looks into the eyes of the man who opposed him.

“Well sell me a cage and call me a hamster. You must be Cheffield Dvorak then.”

The man’s taken aback.

“That is my name.”

“Well, if you supposedly know me, and my work, then you’ll be happy to know that your brother is alive. But I’ll never tell you where.” He waits a beat. “Although the price is negotiable on that.”

“You killed him.”

“Benny Dvorak…hmm. If I do recall, he was wanted for three counts of murder in Hungary, if I remember correctly?”

“Yes. And he went to you.”

“Right, hmm, well, after we met, he decided he was better off without our help. He flew back to Russia, and it’s really just most unfortunate that the plane went down, although, it is quite a spectacular way to go, if you ask me.”

“He resurfaced in the Bahamas. I know, because he called me.”

The interviewer almost chokes.

“W-what?”

“He said that someone named Amelia hadn’t been thorough enough. That _they_ had found him. He was shot while I was still talking to him. Didn’t even get a good chance to say goodbye to my last brother.”

“Well I’m sorry to hear that-“

“And after that, I had to find out just who this Amelia was, and that” Cheffield laughs. “That led me straight to you.”

“I don’t follow.”

Cheffield gives a look to his friends on either side of the interviewer. In a split second, they had him on his feet and in the aisles. A small crowd had gathered at this point. There were no guards in sight, and this was no doubt a coincidence on behalf of his new Russian friend.

“You’ve made an embarrassment of me, my family, and my brother’s memory.”

“I really do believe that’s more on the fault of your broth-”

This time it’s a fist that collides with his face. And then another. Then another. He’s being hit at all angles by his attacker. In the ribs, in the chest, in the neck, in the groin, oh god the groin. He tries to defend himself but the strong arms of Cheffield’s goons give him no room to maneuver. He tried to stand his ground, but the hits became too much. He takes a few more to the face. Blood now poured down his lip, down his nose, his split cheek. Sweat and blood ran into his eye, obscuring his vision. He collapses down onto his knees, feeling something crack in his shoulder as the goons continue to try to keep him standing. Dvorak signals to them yet again, and they finally drop him to the ground.

The interviewer tends to see himself as a reserved man. He always tried to present himself in a respectful, modest manner. He would wear suits to work, maintain good posture, smile as much as he could, request cocoa in the kindest of manners, but in this environment, his entire previous sense of self was held to an impossible standard. He curled in on himself, if only to escape from Cheffield’s brutal attacks for just a moment.

And for that moment, he succeeded. The floor of the prison was cool and calming. It grounded him, if just for that second. Out of his blurry vision, the interviewer saw Cheffield take something out of his jumpsuit. He couldn’t make it out in time, as Cheffield took that moment to climb on top of him. Whatever it was, it was probably bad news.

“’m sorry. We can r-reimburse you or-“

Something cold is plunged into his stomach. It doesn’t even hurt at first. He looks down and sees a red stain start to appear. The end of a sharpened toothbrush sticks out of his lower right abdomen. He starts to bring a hand down to it when Cheffield shifts the plastic.

“Gah-”

The interviewer sees stars and almost blacks out. He feels something shift inside his stomach but can’t bring himself to look down.

Someone is shouting from behind the crowd. There’s sounds of…of gunfire, no. Not gunfire. Tasers? Batons? All of the above? The interviewer couldn’t be bothered to distinguish the exact level of force that was being unleashed upon the prison’s general population, but he knew from the surprised yells and roars that he may have finally gotten a stroke of luck. A woman’s voice comes over the crowd:

“Get away! Get off of him.”

The pressure is released from the interviewer’s chest. The pain remains. He groans. His surroundings are nothing but blurry images shuffling around his pitiful figure. A voice comes out of the mist.

“Are you okay?” He doesn’t respond. Does he _look_ okay? From the side:

“Get him to the hospital ward. We can’t lose him. He’s important.”

 _Important_. Thought the interviewer. A word with such meaning. Was he important? Important enough to not die this instant? Important enough to not succumb to the searing pain that will just simply not cease to radiate from his stomach? He got _shanked_. He really did. He thought that that was just something that happened on tv, on HBO. It wasn’t supposed to happen to dignified brits who work for secret organizations. Blood. Blood comes from shanks and…it was coming from him now, too. He tries to reach down but a hand blocks his.

“Relax. We have you.” Pressure is applied to his wound. He begins to freak out. Was it in him again? Had Cheffield returned? Hadn’t he had enough?

“N-no. Please.”

“You’re safe.”

He squirms and tries to sit up. Where had all this energy come from? Previous instincts? He had been in worse situations after all.

“Get off…of me.”

He flings a hand away from him but is now held down by an overwhelming majority.

“’et- ugh.” He groans again. Too many hands. Too many people. Too many sounds too many lights too many sounds too many hands. He has to get out. The interviewer begins to breathe quickly. Much too quickly. Breathing with breaths he doesn’t have. Something clinks to his right. Something big had been set down what was that, a torture device? Were they going to strap him down and abstract his secrets from him?

“Finally. Alright, let’s transfer him.” Comes a voice from the side. He hadn’t realized that he had tears streaming from his barely open eyes. Tears from what? The pain? The helplessness? The panic? A plastic mask comes over his face. The last one, it is.

“no no no no-“ To no avail. The gas was peaceful. Quiet. Like the darkness he quickly fell into.

* * *

The raggedy plane sets down at the Russian airstrip. Where in Russia? Alvina couldn’t tell you. Hell, she didn’t actually see them touch down, but she had heard mutterings to air traffic control in Russian. All those years on the isolated island gave her time to pick up a few languages. Did the lessons pay off? Kind of, but identifying that they were in Russia didn’t exactly help with their situation or how they were going to get out of said situation. She looked to Amelia, who was looking calm as ever. How could she? It was a plane they were in! A shitty plane, in the air, with a thin sheet of metal being the only thing separating them from certain, inevitable death. Her fear must have shown through her poker face, because Amelia nudged her.

“Everything will be okay.”

Now she was getting on Alvina’s nerves. Okay??? They lost Joey, Salvatore, _and_ Kozlawski all in one day, and now they had no idea where they were supposed to be going. Russia. They were in Russia and…something is important in Russia. She guessed they were just going to find out.

“Okay” said Alvina. The seal to the outside world is broken and the two women are escorted off of the plane. To their surprise, a giant prison complex greeted them upon stepping off the plane.

A man comes to greet them as soon as they step foot on the property. He begins to lead them to a gate.

“Hello there,” says Amelia, “I’m Amelia, and this is Alvina. We’re wondering where exactly-“

The the gate flies open and almost hits her.

“What the hell?!” she yells.

The man ignores her and continues to lead them into the building.

The building is fill with doors. The pass through a door. Another door. More doors. And then some. Alvina lost count, frankly. Big metal door. Unlock. Enter. Big metal door. Unlock. Repeat. Eventually they came to a final door.

“Is he in there?”

The man doesn’t answer. Clearly, they were never going to get anything out of this man. He brings out a separate ring of keys from his pocket and unlocks the door. To Alvina’s surprise, and Amelia’s as well, the door pulls back to reveal a small office that was identical to the interviewer’s office back at their central headquarters.

“What’s this then?” asked Alvina.

“Enter.” Said the man.

“No. You’re going to tell us exactly what’s going on. Where’s-”

From behind them, a sudden disturbance. Shouts come from down the hall. Guards start running past the open doorway. The man seems mildly concerned.

“He’s out for lunch. Wait here, for your safety, please.”

That was more than they had heard from him this entire time. They comply. They walk through the open door and the man closes it behind them. The click of a lock confirms that they’ve been locked in. They look at each other. A silent acknowledgement. They can’t actively do anything to change their situation, so it’s best to canvas the area and see what they had on hand. Amelia checks out the window first. Or, at least it had seemed to be a window. Upon further observation, it was not, in fact, a window. Alvina starts rummaging through his desk.

“It’s missing a letter opener from the top left drawer.” says Alvina.

Amelia gives her an incredulous look.

“What?” asks Alvina.

“How do you even-“

“He tends to be very particular about what supplies go in what drawers. This is almost a complete replica of the other office, save for the letter opener…and the window.”

“Hm.”

* * *

When he awoke, it was quiet. Quiet like on the slow days, back at headquarters. No clientele, no pressing issues, just him, and mug full of his favorite chocolatey drink. He wondered what Alvina was up to at that very moment.

But this wasn’t the home office. This was prison, or, a prison hospital, more precisely. In Russia. Who thought this was a good idea? To have him work out of a Russian prison. Much like getting shanked, the Gulag was something best left for dramatic late-night tele. Everything is fuzzy. Not like it was when he was dying of blood loss, but more muted. Drugged? Who’s to say. Some conversation was occurring in the hallway. The sounds are muffled. There is somehow too much color and not enough color at the same time. How was that even possible? His mouth feels like it was stuffed full of cotton. Water. He needs water. The cocoa can wait.

“Hello?” He rasps. Oh god is that what he sounded like? He could barely hear himself, how is an underpaid prison doctor supposed to hear? He tries again.

“Hello?” The talking from the hallway stops and a door opens. He hears footsteps walking in and a white figure approaches him.

“Ah, you’re awake! How are you feeling?” asked the figure.

“Ur- water?”

“Okay.” The figure left. He didn’t want them to leave. They hadn’t even had a proper conversation yet. That’s what he gets for requesting things first. It was selfish of him, really. Alvina would have scolded him. Where is Alvina? Footsteps pad back towards him. A Styrofoam cup with a straw is handed to him.

“Thnk- you.”

The figure nods as he takes a tentative sip. It’s not until now when he realizes just how sore he is; just how interconnected every part of his body is. The slightest adjustment of his jaw twinges his bruised neck, and the subsequent adjustment of his neck pulles at his newly placed stiches in his stomach. He decides that the water can wait. His hand shakes as he tries to place the cup back onto the table. Some splashes out of the rim and the cup drops to the ground. True, there wasn’t much water in there to start, but that doesn’t spare him any embarrassment. He sighs.

“’m sorry.” He rasps out.

No response. After a beat, the figure returns, picks up the cup, and places it on the tray next to him. It reminded him of something…someone…Alvina? Where was Alvina?

“Sleep. You need your strength” came the voice.

No, he didn’t want to…although on second thought, it didn’t sound like the worst option. Maybe a small nap…

* * *

Amelia made her way to the shelves while Alvina proceeded to carefully walk across the room, carefully. The exact dimensions as well. They were good.

After what seems like eternity, footsteps come from outside. A key is inserted. A twist. The door opens.

“Hello?” asks Amelia.

“Come with me.” Says the man.

“Where is he?” asks Alvina?

“Something’s happened.”

“Where-“

“Just, please, come with me. I will explain on the way.”

The man makes way for the two of them and they set off. The long, dull, grey hall seems to stretch on forever. The three’s footsteps thud against the cement floor, reverberating along the barren walls. In the background, the louder shouts from earlier have died down. There was still a hum of activity coming from the larger incarceration areas. The man begins to talk.

“There was a disturbance in the mess hall” he says.

“What kind of disturbance?” asks Amelia.

“A violent one.”

“Is he-“

Alvina is interrupted as the round the corner and enter through a pair of swinging double doors.

* * *

This time, as he comes to wake, he hears voices in the higher register. There is a very heated conversation. Someone was getting very heated and angry. It almost sounds like…Alvina? It couldn’t be her. Or…that definitely sounded like Alvina’s voice. He tries to open his eyes but they’re as heavy as rocks. A twinge from his side. That’s right…he was stabbed.

Alvina didn’t know what she was expecting when walking through those doors but it was definitely not her colleague laid out on a bed with a bloodied bandage covering his side. Amelia moved to stop her from hitting the mysterious man who had been leading them on to this point, but unfortunately for the man (and fortunately for Alvina) Amelia failed and Alvina hit him perfectly square across the nose. He was taken by surprise and almost didn’t react at all. The man wipes at his nose.

“Well that was uncalled for.”

“Uncalled for?? You were supposed to protect him and what, he’s injured? What happened? Is he-“

“Alvina, please” says Amelia.

“Oh will you shut it, Amelia? Our friend and colleague is dying and-“

“He’s not dying…per say.”

This time Amelia successfully stops Alvina’s attempt at assaulting the man.

The interviewer, having caught at least half this conversation, had worked up the strength to not only open his eyes, but maybe access his vocal chords as well.

“Alvina?” came the interviewer. His voice was groggy and hoarse.

All argument immediately stops. Footsteps quickly approach his position. He’s briefly reminded of the footsteps surrounding him as he was severely beaten earlier and he tenses up, his breathing rate increasing as well. They stop.

“It’s me. I’m here” says Alvina.

“Me, as well” comes Amelia.

His thoughts race. They’re here. They’ve come for him. Or…he very much hoped they did. It would be quite the sick trick the Russians were playing if it wasn’t actually them. Someone grabs his hand. A comfort. He couldn’t tell who it was, but alas, it didn’t ultimately matter. The gesture was gentle, kind. Something he had scarcely seen in the Golovin Prison, and it was a welcome sight. Speaking of, he could still only make out blurry images. His eyes seemed to be swelled up. He can only imagine what his previously handsome face now looked like.

“What happened?” asked Alvina to the man. Was that Oleg? Or was it Boris? No answer.

“-nhappy c-clients” rasped the Interviewer.

“What?” Amelia was very confused.

He began to cough. Bad idea. His body decided to set off a painful chain reaction after the coughing began and didn’t stop. He tasted blood. His side ached—hell, his whole body still ached so much. He just wanted to sleep. But he also wanted to talk to Alvina and Amelia. God. He was so tired though.

There’s a hand on his chest now. Was it the same hand that was in his earlier? He didn’t have enough time to think about that as a straw was pushing against the edge of his lip. Water? He took a sip. The liquid burned as it went down. If he hadn’t known better he would have assumed that it was some sort of acid.

“Some other prisoners found out who he was and assaulted him.”

“Assault? This is a full on murder attempt!” yells Alvina.

“I agree. Is that a stab wound? How did the prisoners even get ahold of a knife?” asks Alvina.

“It…wasn’t a knife. It was…”

“What? Spit it out.” Says Alvina.

“Well, we think it was a toothbrush. Whoever used it managed to hide it before we were able to confiscate it.”

“How incompetent are you people?” asks Alvina.

“With all those layers of security I would have thought you’d be better at confiscating toothbrush shanks!” comes Alvina.

“It was a fluke on our part, although there is a good chance that the guards on duty were paid off, too.”

“Well this story just keeps getting better and better.” Says Alvina.

Their voices were giving him a headache. He should probably put a stop to it.

“We run a prison of over 10,000 inmates it’s not as simple as-“

“Not as _simple_?? Do you know who this man is?” says Amelia.

“We very well know! He is an esteemed guest”

“’Guest’” mocks Alvina.

“Stop it! All of you!” yells the interviewer. Where had that come from? The voices fall silent once again.

“I’m sorry.” Says Alvina. “We’ll leave you to rest up, okay?”

No, that’s not what he meant.

“N-no. Stay.” He blurts out.

“Oh.”

“Please?”

“Of course we’ll stay with you.” Says Amelia. At least she understood. She’d known him for such a long time and never before now had she seen him in such a vulnerable state. Never had anyone, really. Those dissatisfied clients had come so very close to ending his important legacy.

At least they were here with him, now. Small comforts in his current agony-filled void. He sighs and closed his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> You ever just...forget how to write? Like I was halfway through this and was suddenly like "shit am I supposed to write in present tense or past tense or do I switch? Did I switch? Which one do you use?" You know? Writing?


End file.
